


locard's exchange ( oneshot prose )

by justacalamity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Carey Mulligan as John Watson, Confused Sherlock Holmes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt, F/F, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm not a forensics student but I'm trying my best, Keira Knightley as Sherlock Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Is Not Okay, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Short One Shot, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26174128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justacalamity/pseuds/justacalamity
Summary: ❝ every contact leaves a trace. ❞an internal monologue — sherlock doesn't understand what she's feeling for her flatmate, and is desperately trying to reason it out, but soon finds it's much more than she initially anticipated.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	locard's exchange ( oneshot prose )

**Author's Note:**

> i may be writing a lot more of these so :) stay tuned

_wherever he steps, whatever he touches, whatever he leaves, even unconsciously, will serve as a silent witness against him. not only his fingerprints or his footprints, but his hair, the fibres from his clothes, the glass he breaks, the tool mark he leaves, the paint he scratches, the blood or semen he deposits or collects. all of these and more, bear mute witness against him. this is evidence that does not forget._

_it is not confused by the excitement of the moment. it is not absent because human witnesses are. it is factual evidence. physical evidence cannot be wrong, it cannot perjure itself, it cannot be wholly absent._

_only human failure to find it, study and understand it, can diminish its value._

_— paul l. kirk (paraphrasing dr. **edmond locard** ) _

* * *

  
  


it goes without saying that i am not the best at dealing with emotions. consider this an admittedly **feeble** attempt at explaining what i don’t understand, in terms of what i do. 

take locard’s exchange principle, the bedrock of forensic investigation: **every contact leaves a trace.** this applies to people who come and go in a matter of seconds; you have lived here for months. you’re a creature of habit, as most are, dwelling in the same places; it’s not hard to see what you’ve been doing. dangerously predictable.

the soft brown fibres of that hideous oatmeal-coloured cardigan are all over your chair, some older, some recent. you’ve had the garment for around ten years — the degree of separation of individual strands is quite telling. it never did you justice, but i can see you love it to bits. i keep telling you to get rid of it, but you never listen, you stubborn _sheepdog_. 

( it’s a startling change in a world where idiots take my word for gospel. not altogether unpleasant. )

there’s the smudge of black ink on your desk. your pen and notepad, by the window. the pen is angled in that quaint way you always pick it up when you’re talking on the phone. in my mind’s eye, you are sitting there, legs crossed, twirling it between your fingers as you draw unreadable squiggles with a smile —

— in a second, your soft yet piercing gaze meets mine, and i’m alone again. walking these old floors in my bare feet, wondering where I went wrong.

the last traces of your perfume are still in the sitting room — this is unmistakably clinique’s **_happy_**. it’s criminally overrated, in my opinion. but the way you wear it, it’s like the first time i’m breathing in the deep notes of spring mimosa, hints of grapefruit & bergamot still lingering in the air.

it’s on my skin, too, for all the times you’ve asked me how my latest case is, or if I’d like chinese for dinner, or if i’m planning on removing the kidneys from the fridge any time soon. sometimes i answer. sometimes i don’t. sometimes i slowly take in your scent, and pretend i’m thinking about a case instead.

( the kidneys are for an experiment. they’ll be there for a week, but i hope to whatever god there is that you won’t leave before then. )

in craving the war, you _became_ it. i am but your aftermath, with shrapnel in my veins and bullets in my flesh, awaiting the violent high of every explosion, and how i will be irreversibly changed, for better or for worse.

the trouble with people is that they see, but do not **observe**. they are unable to pick up the **MINUTIAE** in their immediate environment like i am. blessing or curse that it is, everything in me, on me, around me, reminds me of you. 

i may never have known how to feel, but it’s in my blood to deduce. to seek, and find, unfading signs of your presence in every place you’ve been.

for what it’s worth, the principle holds true; _this is your trace on my_ ** _soul_** _._


End file.
